


emulsion

by soaring_lyrebird



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: -Ish, 5+1 Things, Angst, Character Study, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Introspection, Ranboo Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), ish, just some Sad Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaring_lyrebird/pseuds/soaring_lyrebird
Summary: Tommy turns to him again, looking up and down. “I can’t even imagine taking measurements for you- with how long you are it’d take so much fabric,” he says nonchalantly.Ranboo ignores the ache in his gut, howotherhe feels because of a few short words. There’s a comfort Tommy and Wilbur have with their shared history, by each other’s side in death and in life. They looked alike enough to be mistaken for actual brothers.His expression sours. He wants that.-or-5 times Ranboo felt like he didn't belong, and 1 time he realized it didn’t matter.
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Ranboo, Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), basically lmao - Relationship
Comments: 24
Kudos: 521
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	emulsion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GarnetsAndRoses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarnetsAndRoses/gifts).



I.

Ranboo scrunches his nose, and his reflection does it back.

He holds his arm up, peers closer to the mirror, scratches at his eyes. Watches as the Ranboo behind the glass copies him. He wonders, absentmindedly, which part of him was which. Where the _ender_ ended and the white part, that unknown, began. 

His legs are ender, surely, with their lanky and long form. So is the right eye, although the green doesn't match those from the overworld. But the broad shoulders, buck teeth that nipped at his lips, and other features certainly aren’t like that. They have to be from somewhere else.

Some _thing_ else, foreign, a missing piece of himself he doesn’t and probably will never know. 

Ranboo feels like a scientist taking observations on himself. And he feels like a patient under a scrutinous eye, hopelessly failing at being a good enough subject. If he squints he can see where they stop and start, but, like the speckles on his skin, they end up bleeding and blending, indiscernible from each other.

It makes him unique. It makes him alien.

His fingers keep clawing and contorting his features; he knows, logically, nothing useful will come out of it. Maybe it will dispel the quiet, nagging thoughts—that Ranboo isn’t enough of either species.

Watching his lineage unfold before him, Ranboo realizes he’s as much of an outsider now as he was when he joined. And he’ll stay an outsider until he died.

How could anyone look at him—a mixture, a mutt—and think he belonged? 

Ranboo is some amalgamation of creatures, a hastily sewn Frankensteinian monster whose origins are a mystery, even to himself. 

He turns the faucet, listens as the water creaks through the pipes, and runs the stream over his fingers. His right hand hisses, as expected. His left hand says nothing. Both of them feel like separate entities, detached, and he feels their pain all the same.

Ranboo turns the faucet off, wipes his hands dry. And starts to label his parts again.

* * *

II.

Ranboo opens his eyes, and he’s in a cave.

He stomps his feet on the wood beneath him, grounding himself. His clothes rustle against stone at his back, and it’s silent save for his own breath, stuttering into the air. Faintly, he can hear running water, and the sizzles and pops of magma. 

He’s lucky, this time. There aren’t any monsters nearby.

Rustling through his coat pockets, he manages to find a flint and steel—lighting it and watching in awe as the flame flickers, moving in tandem with the shadows on the wall.

A voice whispers in his right ear, distorted by static. _Hello,_ the enderman says.

Ranboo jumps back, holding his breath, before awkwardly waving. His sleeve nearly tears on the stone. “Hello,” he replies, the words barely forming in his mouth. He stretches out his hand to shake—he should know the proper way to greet an enderman, _he’s_ supposed to be one—but his arm simply hangs in the air as the enderman, the _real_ enderman, stares at it. 

Ranboo locks his eyes onto the floor, waiting.

In his peripheral, the enderman blinks. Turns to him, and lowers its gaze to a point just to the right of his head. It takes fifteen seconds of him staring, dumbfounded, to realize it’s an invitation.

He uses the moment to truly take in the _ender’s_ presence—how its eyes sparkle, invisible glitter falling to the floor, and its skin is black as night, dark and inviting. He feels his breath calm and his chest rise and fall with the enderman’s, their blood rushing at the same pace.

It’s familiar. One could even say familial.

Something compels him to take the flower, a daisy, stuffed in his pocket, and bring it out into the open air. 

He does. His palm, a fistful of petals, reaches out and he squeezes his eyes shut.

The weight in his hand is plucked, and he opens his eyes to find the enderman gone. A rose replaces where the daisy once was.

It’s already starting to wilt and come apart. But speaking to the enderman, for even a brief moment, made him feel secure.

It’s stupid, really. Ranboo’s genetics should make him _ender_ enough, with the endless void painted on his skin, but it doesn’t feel like it. That white half, with piercing eyes, is almost an invader—transforming a perfect _ender_ into an imperfect combination. 

He is no more _ender_ than he is not _ender,_ and that thought terrifies him. 

The language—like the color of his hair and his eyes—ties him to his roots. It ensures that he doesn’t just _look_ like them, but he speaks and sounds like them too. It dispels the feeling of never being _ender_ below the surface. 

Somewhat.

Their words are incorrectly molded on his tongue, and his ears, _ender_ enough to know the intricacies of the language, notice every time. The sounds stumble into the air: so close to perfection yet never quite reaching it.

A part of him hates how the language of the SMP, a foreigner’s and one of bloodlust, fits him better. It twists his mouth, altering his _ender_ words into ones that sound traitorous to his kind, to that half of himself.

The only half of himself he _knows_ , fully. The only half that he can see, scattered in his travels, in bits and pieces of ender-eyes and broken portals. Fellow endermen with their language that he can't quite speak, of a home he can't quite remember.

His memories leave him with a tangible feeling of guilt, and nothing more.

* * *

III.

He blinks, and someone’s talking.

“And in L’manburg- when we were fighting Dream the first time, not the second-” Tommy’s hands move animatedly as he talks, and his whole chest following- “We had these _suits_ that I worked on for, like, a whole week straight I think, with gold trimmings and shit like that,” Tommy huffs, looking at Ranboo.

He smiles, tight-lipped and unreal, but Tommy looks too deep in thought to care. “That sounds like a lot of work?” he asks, his voice drawing out the invisible question mark awkwardly added on.

“It was, it was so much work.” Tommy looks at him, tilting his head up. “Did you know I’m the only person here who knows how to sew? Out of the whole server-” he opens his arms wide in emphasis- “only one man knows how threads and needles work,” he cries, exasperation bleeding into his voice.

Ranboo doesn’t doubt he’s telling the truth. “Yeah, that’s- that’s rough.”

Tommy turns to him again, looking up and down. “I can’t even imagine taking measurements for you- with how long you are it’d take _so_ much fabric,” he says nonchalantly.

Ranboo ignores the ache in his gut, how _other_ he feels because of a few short words.

“Wilbur was so- he went crazy when I showed him the sketches,” Tommy continues, smiling fondly at something out of view. “It might’ve just been because I was showing support for L’manburg, but, man-”

Ranboo, again, ignores a pain in his gut. There’s a comfort Tommy and Wilbur have with their shared history, by each other’s side in death and in life. They looked alike enough to be mistaken for actual brothers. 

His expression sours. He wants that.

“Wilbur went nuts, basically. And- you alright?”

Ranboo jerks his head up. “Me? I’m- I’m great right now.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, silently grateful for how they hid his shaking. “What- what happened to the suits? In the end?”

Tommy sighs. “They got tossed out like- around the time of the election? Maybe after. I don’t know, my memory isn’t the best,” he says.

Ranboo chuckles. “I know how that feels.”

Time starts to slip away from him, the feeling of envy in his gut making his body tremor. Tommy waves, his form duplicating as Ranboo squints his eyes and clutches his head. Faintly, he can hear his voice and how it calls out, before everything fades to black.

When he comes to, the boy is gone.

* * *

IV.

The ceiling paint is chipping, wood peeking through the color. Deep oak clashes against pastel yellow, and the bedsheet lays heavy on his chest, his breathing slowly rising and falling in tandem with the wind.

Ranboo does a thought experiment with himself, trying to fall asleep, about a grayscale world where everyone was a combination of black and white. 

If he boiled himself down to his essence, mixed and muddled the black and white to form a kind of pasty gray that only existed on his skin, would it be better? Would the feeling of two halves, poorly sewn together, finally end?

If he lived in a world full of that foggy gray, would he belong?

A small part of him whispers back, _yes._

A society of Ranboos—the phrase sounds comedic; his thought process is anything but—forms in his mind, all looking like him and speaking like him, with no history to remember and instead coming together to form their own. 

_It sounds like home,_ he yearns, and shakes the thought away.

Would they continue to label themselves as combinations of black and white, or would they collectively be something new, a whole that’s different than the sum of its parts? Would Ranboo be part of that new type, new kind of person? The idea that he could be defined as something more—complete through his own definition rather than as a mix of other people’s—makes him excited.

If he reaches out his hand he could almost grasp it, vivid images of people who make his two-toned features common and make him feel like he belongs; he cries out to that invisible society, clings onto fistfuls of daydreams and a cloudless sky.

Ranboo mourns for something he will never have.

The bedsprings creak beneath him, and he closes his eyes, tired.

* * *

V.

Phil’s face scrunches up as he offers Ranboo the book, its pages dog-eared and weathered. An uncountable number of neon pink tabs jut out from the side.

“If you-” he starts, stopping halfway through the question. Ranboo _thinks_ it was supposed to be a question, anyway. “When I was looking into how to resurrect Wilbur, I came across,” he pauses, “a lot of other, technically irrelevant, rituals and spells and that sort of thing.”

“And?” Ranboo says, drawing the word out. He’s missing some vital piece of information.

Phil bites his lip. “And there’s a ton of stuff you might be interested in, or want to take a look at, or use, even, and,” his voice trails off, “yeah.”

Ranboo looks back at the journal, tracing the cover with his eyes and watching as the gold trimmings catch the light. The leather is worn and crosshatched, firmly attached by the binding.

“I guess what I’m asking, really, is whether you want it.” Phil sets the book on the table in front of him, his movements slow and precise. “Or not.”

Ranboo still feels like he’s missing something. He nods, slowly, trying to buy some time to himself. 

Phil takes that as his cue to leave, awkwardly retreating out the door. His feathers rustle against the doorframe and his unkempt hair vanishes from view.

And Ranboo is alone again.

He opens the book, the pages smelling both old and new as they crackle beneath his fingers. They whisper untold stories and legends as he flips through the tabs; Phil has noted where transformation rituals, cloaking spells, storage enchantments, and even wards were scribbled down.

A specific one—scratchy ink that he can barely make out, talking about paternity and bloodlines—catches his eye. He writes a note to himself, marking it, and moves on.

Somehow, Phil must have thought these were important to him. Yet uncertainty colored every word escaping his mouth, his feet rocked back and forth as Ranboo simply stared at him, trying to determine why exactly he came. 

This book had the _potential_ to be life-changing and important, but Phil didn’t treat it as absolute. Ranboo could find the contents useful, or he could not. 

Phil wanted to give him the option. Let him choose for himself.

Ranboo flips back to that tab, the spell that would reveal his ancestry, and reads through it more closely.

It calls for many different ingredients from many different places. Half of them he hasn’t even heard of. Was finding out who he was, moreover, what his heritage was _adventure-worthy_ important? Was all the time and energy worth it just for a sliver of information?

He doesn’t know. It wouldn’t necessarily change anything; Ranboo’s body would remain as it always had been, research it or let it be.

It could change everything—finally ending that dissonance within himself.

He sets the book on the table, watching as it picks up dust and how the particles swirl through the air, and is unsure of what to think.

* * *

VI.

The next morning, he finds Phil making pancakes. 

“What shape do you want me to make yours?” he calls, watching as Ranboo stumbles down the stairs. He has to bend down to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and Phil laughs good-naturedly all the while.

“Uhh, what?” he answers. Ranboo makes it to the bottom of the landing, peering over Phil’s shoulder as he wipes the pan.

“I’ve been learning how to make them different shapes. Techno’s is a sword, and mine’s a heart.” Phil tilts the pan so Ranboo can get a better view. “Anything in particular you want?”

Ranboo doesn’t know how to answer. “Just a plain circle’s fine, I think.”

Phil shrugs. “Okay.”

Ranboo goes to sit at the table, watching as Techno comes down the stairs not too long after. “Good morning!” he chirps.

Techno rubs his eyes, looking him up and down. “I forgot you lived here with us,” he says, before cracking a smile.

It’s at this moment Ranboo realizes.

The man clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline has unnatural pink skin, sharpened claws and hooves and tusks. Beside him is a man standing over a frying pan, the back of his clothes torn to fit a pair of wings.

Neither of them is out of place. 

Above the fireplace hangs a necklace of prized gold, and jars stuffed with shiny trinkets line the windowsills. For a moment, Ranboo imagines a rose and a set of flower pots joining them.

When Tubbo stared at him earlier, holding a cube of grass in his hands, his eyes were full of wonder. Not fear, or anger, or suspicion.

Ranboo races up the stairs, to the book by his nightstand. He flips through the faded pages to the spell that had been tormenting the previous night. 

Did his friends, the people he loved, care about _what_ he was? Did it matter, even, what categories he could break himself down into?

With a shaky laugh, he realizes the answer. _No,_ a part of him sings, joyous and free. They thought of him as a friend, and that was enough. He belonged no matter what.

He stuffs the book into his pocket—it barely fits—and ducks his head as he goes down the stairs again. 

Phil smiles, asking him to lay the table. Ranboo does. When breakfast is ready, he wolfs down all of his food, feeling the love poured into every bite and wondering how he didn’t see it sooner.

“Looks like someone was hungry,” Phil comments, smiling at Ranboo’s sheepishness. “Glad you liked it.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s- it’s great, really,” Ranboo says, before realizing his mouth is still full of food. He laughs, covering his face, and tries again. “Thank you, so, so much for making it.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Phil says, smiling back.

Techno swallows, and turns to him. “If you compliment him too much, I think Phil’s gonna make us eat pancakes for the rest of our lives,” he says with wide eyes, breaking character a few moments later. There’s a hint of fondness mixed with the look he sends back at Phil, who’s sent into a dizzy fit of laughter.

Ranboo chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It starts out okay,” Techno says, moving his hands with his palm up, tilting it from side to side. A swath of golden jewelry moves with it. “When we reach three weeks, not so much.”

They all dissolve into giggles at that, and Ranboo finds himself licking his plate clean. 

Later, when Phil is putting the last dish away, Ranboo hands him back the book. 

“You didn’t end up wanting it?” Phil asks. His voice seems innocently curious, but Ranboo can’t help but feel judged.

“Not really, no,” he says. “I just- didn’t end up using it. And I don’t think I will, in the future.”

Phil looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

“So, I think you should have it.” His voice stutters on every word, like a tightrope-walker watching his every step. He holds his breath as Phil just stares at his outstretched hand.

Phil takes the book back, slowly. “Thanks, I guess.” He sets it on the table. “I’ll put it back with the others.” 

Shifting his feet, Ranboo hesitates.

Phil rolls his eyes fondly. “C’mere,” he says, opening his arms.

Ranboo falls into his embrace, finding home.

**Author's Note:**

> i am Praying that this resonated with someone bc. the amount of ventfic i have stuffed into this 5+1? astronomical. i love myself.
> 
> this took. so long. like 3.5 hours of just, straight writing. plus like 2 hours of a first draft (side note: this is a _second draft_ as in i completely rewrote the first one. i'm so sorry for betraying you [meridies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies) but it had to be done). and it was low-key speedran. so. yeah. lots of time and effort. i'm hoping it paid off haha
> 
> sorry for being a bit absent as of late, ya girl's definitely winding down on posting a bit as college shit and semester 2 starts beating my ass haha. if you want to see me active more than once every three weeks, you can find me on [tumblr](https://soaringlyrebird.tumblr.com) or in qar's server ['the writer's block.'](https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm)
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and feel free to leave a comment of your thoughts! this was my first time writing ranboo, i hope i did him justice :]


End file.
